


Home Is

by zenelly



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Unrepentant Fluff, johndave zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 12:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11874192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenelly/pseuds/zenelly
Summary: Written for the JohnDave fanzine, organized by the lovely and wonderful Dzu!“Aw come on, John, you weren't supposed to get out of bed,” Dave says, a tinge of a whine to his voice. He pushes his sunglasses up with what seems to be the only remaining clean part of his hand. “What the fuck kind of anniversary is this if you don't let me cook for you?”





	Home Is

**Author's Note:**

> AHH THIS WAS A BLAST TO WORK ON! The whole post for the zine is [here on tumblr](http://zinestuck.tumblr.com/post/164460977940/johndave-the-fanzine-is-now-available-on), and it was just so much fun to write something simple and homey for these two after, uh, well, the last thing I wrote.

You wake up slowly.

Early morning light creeps through the blinds, streaking across the sheets as your eyes blink carefully open. For long moments, you are unaware of much beyond the familiar boundaries of your immediate body. Dave's skin is a comfortable gravity, grounding you to your mattress, sleep warm and sweetly present in a way you are definitely not awake enough to articulate. You grumble unhappily when he gently, then ungently, shoves your head off his shoulder, trying to cling to his warm, soft body. A quiet laugh comes from above you. “C'mon, John, let me go.”

“Mnno.”

“John,” he says, laughing. “Babe, don't worry, I'll be right back, okay? Just keep sleeping.”

Keep sleeping. Okay, that doesn't sound too tough, even if you _are_ going to lose your favorite and best pillow. However.

You turn your face up, insistent, and Dave's mouth is curved into a sweet smile when he kisses you. “Alright, you c'n leave me now,” you mumble, flopping back down into the pillows as you let Dave go. It's unusual for Dave to be awake before you, but, who cares? You're tired as heck from working overtime the night before. You deserve a little extra rest. You get another kiss, dropped somewhere in your hair, for your agreement. The door closes behind Dave, and sleep washes over you in gentle waves.

You blink, breathe, and submerge, drifting in and out of consciousness. Easy, simple, relaxing.

Until, that is, the smell of something burning wakes you once more.

For a long moment, you consider letting it go. But. Damn it, no, you cannot stand to let this affront to baking stand. You flop a hand out to the nightstand, retrieving the familiar, blocky shape of your glasses. At least putting them on brings the room into focus. Standing, you clutch the blanket around yourself, shuffling out of your cluttered bedroom and towards the smell, which seems to be coming from, surprise surprise, the kitchen.

“Dave,” you ask when you enter the kitchen, “what is this?”

'This' refers to a mess of flour and eggs and something that you honestly don't want to think about too closely because whatever it is, it looks burnt, and that just won't do. 'This' also refers to your boyfriend, who is covered in the same mess, standing guiltily in the middle of the kitchen, a lopsided, shitty Party City chef's hat precariously placed on his head. It doesn't even fit that well, the tight curls of Dave's blond hair escaping at every available avenue. His tank top is a goner, you think to yourself. Not even your mad laundry skills can save it now. Boxers, maybe. Shirt, definitely not.

“Aw come on, John, you weren't supposed to get out of bed,” Dave says, a tinge of a whine to his voice. He pushes his sunglasses up with what seems to be the only remaining clean part of his hand. “What the fuck kind of anniversary is this if you don't let me cook for you?”

“One where I don't die of food poisoning?”

Dave levels a spatula at you, ignoring the mass of … whatever that is that drips onto the floor. You blink. First at him, then at the glop of questionable material on the tile below. And try to not smile. “Five years we've been together, and you don't wanna see me make you breakfast in bed.”

You laugh and gingerly push the spatula to the side. “No, I don't want to see our apartment go up in flames.”

“Come on, a pancake related fire would be the _best_ way to go.” Dave lets himself be drawn forward, though, out of the main body of the mess, though even he makes sure to avoid stepping in the mess he's made. He lets you tilt up and press a kiss to a relatively unmarked, slightly flour-y section of his cheek, though he tuts and turns his head to kiss you properly.

Looking past him, you start mentally cataloging the order in which you're going to start cleaning, planning and replanning as you catch on more and more things that Dave managed to get dirty in the hour or so you left him unattended. You sigh, cock your head to smile wryly at him. “How did you even manage this?”

“Like I know what the fuck any of this does. I learned by watching you.”

You snort. “If you learned from me, you would've been washing your dishes as you went, first of all. Are you even following a recipe?”

Dave is quiet for a long moment, which is telling enough as it is, and you can't _not_ laugh. You lean forward, your forehead pressed against Dave's shoulder, and just _laugh_ , because this is your boyfriend to a “T.” Devoted, wanting to do nice things for you, and not bothering with thinking through the minutia of the details.

“I hope you know,” you say finally, “that I fully expect you to order pizza while I start cleaning this.”

“Happy anniversary?” Dave offers, tentative.

You thread your fingers through his, tugging his hand up and kissing the back of it. And you smile, lopsided and warm, and hoping every ounce of the terrible, world-ending fondness currently clenching around your chest comes through when you say, “Yeah, Dave. Happy anniversary to you too. Love you.”

“I know.”

“Dude.”

Dave shrugs, unpinning his hat and stripping out of his shirt. “Hey, I love you too, but someone's gotta be Han Solo in this relationship.”

You are momentarily distracted by the sight of Dave's exposed torso, the dark whorl of hair trailing down into his boxers, but you rally admirably. Clean first. Get frisky later, when Dave's in less trouble. “Alright, well, when I'm the one getting shit done and you leave me to go hare off across the universe, you'd better not get nobly killed by our murderous, dubiously sociopathic son.”

“I make no promises. Besides, you'd look better in her white dress and I'd look better with the Corellian bloodstripes.”

“You fucking nerd, go order pizza and then come help me clean up your mess.”

He swipes at your head, affectionately mussing your hair before he carefully places his Party City chef hat on your head. It fits you better than it fit him, a fact neither of you point out, though you do reach out and fuss his curls back out where the hat had compressed them a bit. Dave smiles, dear and lovely, and drops a kiss on your nose. “The mess I made out of love.”

“Yes, the mess you made out of love, but it's still a mess. And don't-”

With a shrug, Dave does exactly what you were about to warn him to not do, thumbing his underwear completely off. You lift your eyes to the ceiling. Not out of any sort of sense of modesty, because Dave's certainly shameless as he walks back to your room, but exasperation. “Dave, what have I said about stripping in our living room?”

“Last time you asked that question, you got an answer you don't want me repeating out in the living room!”

And the warm feeling that's been growing this entire time crests, a thunderous pulse of affection and love that fills you from top to bottom, and you laugh and laugh and can't imagine being anywhere but here, with Dave. Happy, together. Together and happy, and so very in love with your best friend.

 


End file.
